Since its inception in 2009, Lethal Style has certainly seen more than a fair share of slasher stories paired with The Orginal Cult’s most killer threads. After all, the very name of this style blog basically spells it out for the readers. Over the past year, the characters you’ve read about here disposed of clueless club kids in Cellar Heat, bathed in model blood in Hotel Bathory, and put some rednecks on the business end of a hook in The Reaper. With the occasional shrunken head, chupacabra, and bear on PCP aboard an airplane thrown in the mix for good measure.
I’m thankful for my Lippy webmasters Mich and Jim for giving me the opportunity to flesh out all the crazy ideas spawned within the bowels of my “that bitch ain’t right” imagination. I’m thankful for Dan, my boyfriend, who mostly took over the fiction writing, so I could focus my ADD riddled brain on the meat of the matter — styling and long-winded fashion rants. I’m thankful for each and every photographer who helped to bring my twisted/hilarious/just plain bizarre visions to life. I’m thankful for the friends who became willing victims for my cause (a.k.a. guest models) and for every faithful assistant comrade who carried lights from the photographer’s vehicle onto location. Last but not least, I’m certainly thankful for a certain Los Angeles based clothing retailer, whose gear made all these sartorial shenanigans possible.
I dedicate November’s cornfield-n-machete splatterfest to you all.
Story by Dan Barrett.
The farm was just as it had appeared in the pictures. Fairly dilapidated and half eaten by weeds & rust, but still manageable as living quarters. It was a far cry from the place I remembered as a child, but it should be sufficient. After years of slogging away in office buildings in the city; filing papers, sending faxes, completing menial database consolidation, and ultimately realizing that nearly every waking moment was spent being a slave to our continuously evolving technology, I decided the only way for me to properly continue living was to escape it all. So, I sold my apartment in the midst of the metropolis and sought to buy the farmland my family had owned when I was born. Though the place had been in the family for generations, it had stopped being a useful source of revenue in the days of my early youth and consequently was sold so we could move to an urban area, where better-paying jobs flourished. There I had remained for the better part of eighteen years, learning the ways of the populous and becoming ingrained in the fast-paced society, learning to live and die by the clock. I had succeeded by the criteria of that world, but success did little to lead me from despair. And so, here I was at last, reclaiming the soil of my hard-working forefathers.
The place was highly removed from the population I had known; it was nearly an hour to a city of any notable size, and an impressive twenty minutes outside of what could generously be called a town. The roads leading to it were hardly even paved. It was a good, fortress-like, abode constructed not with outward splendor, but solely with functionality; combined with the beauty of the un-tread earth and nearby deciduous forests, it was the ideal haven for a deserter of society.
It took me only a matter of days to clean up the house enough to comfortably reside there. The place was mostly abandoned, and needed a number of repairs to be restored to basic functioning living quarters. I survived on sustenance I had bought in town while I worked to uncover the long dormant fields. All of them were long deceased and entombed by weed and rock. All, that is, except for one area. There was a cornfield which seemed to have, oddly, been kept up through the years. It was mid autumn, mere days before Thanksgiving, and the corn stalks were a brownish golden hue, in the final stages of decay, but it was clear this field had not been left to perish like the other plots. It was bizarre, but I deduced a rational explanation for it in my head. Despite my lineage, I knew very little about crop growing, so I chalked it up to some form of seed that replenishes itself yearly with little additional maintenance. If only I had been right…
For a while, the days and nights were generally uneventful. I worked on planting seeds when I could; I was hoping to figure out the art of pumpkin growing for the holidays. After dark I sometimes heard strange rustling coming from corn, but I inferred the cause was simply wind, birds, or perhaps ground-dwelling mammals, such as moles or rabbits, and dismissed it. One day, a few weeks after moving into the farmhouse, I was walking through the cornfield to understand its true breadth and depth. After a couple minutes of wandering betwixt this seemingly endless sea of rotten stalks and leaves, I came upon an extraordinary opening where the corn seemed to have been trampled, perhaps not unlike a crop circle! I could not fathom the necessity of such a thing. Unfortunately, my pondering was halted suddenly by what sounded like the crunch of heavy footsteps over the debris. I gradually turned counter clockwise and saw them close in around me. There were several, perhaps eight of them in total. Peculiar and deformed folk, they were wearing raggedy clothing and smelling rank, like old carrion fermented in mud. Some were carrying rusted weapons, and some just had horrible hook-like fingers. I hadn’t heard any reports of crazed mountain folk in this area but, then again, people HAD been quite reluctant to talk about why no one resided on the farm, nor why it had been so cheap. The things seemed to be oblvious to common language, and spoke sporadically in gruff, harsh tones resembling no language with which I was familiar. They closed in around me until escape was beyond hope. At that point a woman, who appeared to be their commander, appeared from the veil of obsolete vegetation. This being was more put together than the rest of them, many times over; it wore all black with stockings and terrifying heeled shoes. It had some sort of torture or suffocation device on its face, wild red hair and brandished a machete. It motioned to the group, at which point they barreled inward toward me and I was rapidly seized. My senses were gone from me for what I had hoped was only a short while, but of that I cannot be certain. When I awoke, there was only blackness around me. Though I could only feel its cold, slimy innards, the group had prepared me for some sort of archaic ritual by crudely grafting a pumpkin onto my head. They had 
used an unknown heat source to melt the flesh around my shoulders and neck, somewhat effectively binding it to the pumpkin’s outer husk. They had also burned my chest into an unrecognizable pool of blood and dripping gore. I felt nothing but smoldering pain and choking abysmal darkness in my new head. I screamed, steeped in agony, but the sound was deeply muffled and did little beyond causing painful reverberations. My body was being held down by an unseen force and there was little chance of fleeing or responsive action. Much to my chagrin, the ritual required my face also be butchered. I came to this epiphany when I saw thin slits of light appear in what had been my solid black mask. They were identifying the eye holes and, soon after, the knife came down full force on my face. The little I saw past that was marinated in sticky fluid red. She continued to cut up both of my faces, letting my blood leak through onto the pumpkin, running down its length and dripping onto the soil below. Through the pain I could hear them, distantly, chanting. I understood now. This group of miscreants was sitting down for Thanksgiving, and this was their opening prayer. They were giving thanks to the earth for providing for them and offering up a blood sacrifice as proof of their recognition. Perhaps it was due to my delusional state, but I swore I could hear the cawing of turkeys as they paraded around the area. After I had exsanguinated, my body was left, half buried, on the field; it was to provide the nutrients and life to the following year’s crop. Next to my stiffened corpse they left a plate of turkey, mashed potatoes and a husk of corn.
Psychos n’ Pumpkins
Inspiration list: Bad holiday themed 80’s slasher flicks, modern Z-grade Thanksgiving-themed horror centering around animatronic killer turkeys (seriously, check out Thankskilling), Suicide Commando’s music and Johan’s perennial fascination with the black shirt/red tie combo, creepy cornfields, autumn, mass murderers in impractical, alas fashionable, apparel (not an uncommon theme here at Lethal Style), GORE (I just can’t get enough), the backwoods cannibal redneck horror subgenre and over-the-mouth neck corsets.
In a fucked-up nutshell, it is the dysfunctional marriage of a psychotic machete-wielding hick and a well-dressed quasi-fetish-esque female Patrick Bateman (minus the yuppie bullshit). Set in NJ’s finest cornfields to the tune of Suicide Commando’s Construct/Destruct. All wrapped in a pretty package of seasonal blood and guts. Happy Holidays to you too ;)
Never underestimate the power of basics: a well fitted dress shirt (such as the New Model Army LS Insignia Military Shirt, your soon-to-be wear-to-death favorite), a trusty pencil skirt and a pair of “I-can’t-possibly-fuck-my-outfit-up-by-wearing-these” opaque black tights.
Stressin’ about lookin’ like a spinster bankteller? Supplement with shoes which show blatant disregard for comfort of any kind and neckwear which eliminates all notions of subtlety.
Indeed, life is vastly improved by footwear equipped with a heel and platform which closely resemble a marvel of modern architecture. Crossing the street is no longer something you do on auto pilot. In these shoes, it’s an adventure.
Note: If you plan on wearing them in an actual cornfield, I hope you have some damn good health insurance. If you don’t, then marry someone that does. While they’re not quite the McQueen Armadillo 12 inchers, strapping these on with the purpose of trespassing about a stranger’s cornfield with the intent of taking spooky photos in mind will hurt you just the same. In that aspect, cornfields are the great equalizer. Outside the realm of agricultural acreage, I feel like the world is mine for the taking when parading about town in these sexy hunks of metal. It also makes me wish I had seen day shift strippers from Iowa throw these at each other on Jerry Springer.
This time of year, we’re urged to express our thankfulness to Jesus, our fucked up families, and some other wholesome-sounding shit totally unrelated to your ancestors killing off Indians. I find it to be a slippery slope, since Jesus wants me to be nice to people I don’t like and my family drives me to drink. Perhaps, if you dissolve some Valium in a double vodka cranberry-tini, thanking the aforementioned parties will start sounding more plausible, alas; until then, I’m gonna go ahead and give praise to my true God: The Almighty Corset. It has this magical ability to nip the middle just right, assist a girl in the waist-to-hip ratio department, and create a magnificent rack out of seemingly thin air. I show my gratitude by wearing these Godsend garments year ’round just about everywhere I go. Overindulged in Aunt Ruth’s stuffing and pecan pie? The boning and strings will absolve you from guilt, my child. And spare you from being mistaken for a balloon in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
Tie the whole ensemble together (see what I did there) with a zero budget accessory “borrowed” from your boyfriend (or brother’s) closet.
Celebrate carnage with bloodstained latex gloves.
While I hate to state the obvious, go for disposable examination gloves. You’ll hate yourself forever if you fuck up a cute fingerless bow adorned pair you paid like $65 for on the Internets. It’s a “use once and destroy” kind of deal here, folks.
On the style evolutionary scale, over-the-mouth neck corsets zoom past the dust masks and respirators cyber kids love so fucking much at light speeds. Leaving the dust masks where they belong: in a plastic bag hanging off a peg at the Dollar Tree. You see, neck corsets are considered to be bona fide clothing. Granted, they’re classed as “fetishwear” and can double as a punitive device within BDSM circles, but there’s still no mistaking them for home improvement attire. No matter how many spikes one hot glues onto a respirator, they still manage to look like they’re gearing up to paint a house. Sadly, looks like Ext1ze missed the memo (if you don’t get that reference consider yourself, very very lucky).
Earlier today I had a dentist hovering over me while sporting a light blue dust mask. Presumably it served to protect his face from the delicious mixture composed primarily of cement, tooth and blood spraying out of my mouth. While I do consider people of this profession to be sadistic and predatory by nature, not once did I think he looked like a cool, evil cyborg from the future. You don’t look like one either. And that, my friend, is why I’m on Team Neck Corset. Clearly the winning team.
Bonus points: You’re free from the tedious process of re-applying your lipstick all night long.
Bonus points: The Redux: That 60 year old dude, whose rockstar dreams haven’t given up the ghost yet, won’t drone on to you about his go nowhere band that plays synthpop covers of shit that was popular before you were born. Your selective mutism ploy will finally work!
Warning: You’ll be forced to find new and creative ways to get plastered. But as they say: If there’s a will, there’s a way!
For a family friendly, Thanksgiving-dinner-appropriate take on the getup pictured above:
- Stick with the shirt, skirt and tights.
- Remove shoes, falls, both corsets, bloody gloves.
- Pair with a plain black vest.
- Keep the tie! It will easily camouflage the pyramid stud buttons.
- Dust off those black 2” heels you usually save for job interviews. Surely you must have pair within the recesses of your closet.
- Don’t be so quick to put away that machete. You never know when your batshit crazy uncle will get into the scotch and start waxing poetic about all the sexy things he’d like to do to Sarah Palin over dessert.
Your relatives should be used to you wearing all this black by now.
I’ve discussed the fine art of dreadfall insertion on many occasions. This was one of them.
Guts n’ Gourds
Nothing warms the cockles of one’s bloodthirsty heart quite like torture and depravity, eh?
Here’s how I made a mess out of Dan.
Texture (looks great for burn victims too).
You Will Need:
Two ply toilet paper, Liquid latex(or school glue if you’re poor like me after spending a hell lot of money at the dentist), Petroleum jelly, Paint brushes, Red/black acrylic paint.
- Rip toilet paper into individual squares.
- Cover the back with adhesive of choice.
- Adhere to desired area of exposed skin.
- Cover the top layer of the TP with latex or school glue.
- Repeat until the area you wish to cover resembles a toilet paper mummy. Note: Don’t leave any gaps between the bathroom tissue squares. Overlapping is key.
- Keep busy until that shit dries. It usually takes between 30 to 45 minutes.
- Create a mixture of 1/3 petroleum jelly 2/3 paint. Use dark colors like black/red/maroon etcetera.
- Using a medium sized paintbrush, stipple the paint/petroleum jelly concoction onto your toilet paper mache masterpiece.
Assorted Viscera
You Will Need:
Oatmeal, red food coloring, corn starch, corn syrup, water
Combine one tablespoon of cornstarch, 2 teaspoons of water, 6 drops of red food coloring, half a teaspoon of corn syrup in a decently sized mixing bowl. Add as little or as much oatmeal as you want, since that’s the magical ingredient responsible for creating the curdled blood/clumps of ickiness effect. Apply liberally.
Fun Fact: The pumpkin on Dan’s head weighed 35 pounds.
Credits:
Photography: Bill Tracy Photography
Female Model: Vanity Kills
Male Model: Dan Barrett
Location: Coyote infested cornfield in Montague, NJ.
<3
Vanity Kills
